Trying to breathe
by Archaeologist
Summary: Merlin's been drowning in blood. Now it was time to atone. Set after the end of Series 2.


**Summary:** Merlin's been drowning in blood. Now it was time to atone.  
><strong>Timeframe:<strong> after the end of Series 2  
><strong>Warning:<strong> none, dark maybe?  
><strong>Beta:<strong> the lovely venivincere who opened my eyes to the conditional but all mistakes are mine.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> I do not own the BBC version of Merlin; BBC and Shine do. I am very respectfully borrowing them with no intent to profit. No money has changed hands. No copyright infringement is intended.

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><p>He couldn't breathe.<p>

A thousand pathways and each one pulled him deeper into the abyss, the knowledge of what he did, had done, would do in Arthur's service threatening to overwhelm him. He tried to ignore it, tried to remember that promise of destiny, that glorious future, tried and failed.

It wasn't like him to dwell on things. Growing up, he always believed that it would turn all right in the end. When he arrived at Camelot, he was a young boy full of optimism and life. Not so long ago but now he hardly recognized the face staring back at him in the mirror.

He let that naïve child suffocate in the onslaught of every life he took, every choice he made, until he could no longer breathe for the weight of it.

When it became too much, he slipped away from everyone, hiding in the cold caverns beneath the castle, struggling with the memories and trying somehow to make sense of it all. He told himself that it was destiny, that it was his fate to play the fool, his fate to protect someone who valued him so little.

And why should Arthur act any differently? The prince had no idea after all of who or what Merlin was.

For a long time, it was hard to accept that after a brutal fight, when Merlin almost died, had _killed_ someone, Arthur passed him by, ignored his part in the battle. Instead the prince congratulated the knights on another monster vanquished, another sorcerer destroyed, another attack averted. Merlin was but an idiot or a daffodil or some other insult, never a warrior. And if he did take notice, Arthur merely reminded him of how badly he swung a sword or fought off a bandit, of the countless times Merlin stumbled, fell while all around him, the knights fought and sometimes died, always brave and true while his idiot manservant lay cowering in the dirt.

Merlin never said anything, never really protested the injustice of it. After all, what could he say? A word, a slip of the tongue or a plea for recognition however phrased might raise questions and that endpoint would bring him only death.

Instead, he smiled and ignored it as best he could, perhaps sent an insult or two Arthur's way to keep him from probing further – it always worked. The prince was a good man but easily diverted.

Until these last few days, he thought perhaps, he might have accepted his fate, ignored the insults and the dismissals and the pain of what he'd done, stopped being such an idiot and got on with being Arthur's shield against magic, no matter what the cost in grief and death. At least he had a purpose; that should have been reward enough.

Sometimes it almost was.

But now, there was so much blood on his hands, so much death and destruction and oh the cost was too high by far.

Now, the despair crawled so deeply into his skin that it seemed Merlin was encased in it, trapping whatever remained of the naïve bumpkin under layers of blood. There was murder and suffering there and the knowledge that he delivered death to the guilty and the innocent alike.

Morgana, no matter that she had been the vessel for Morgause's magic, was still his friend, still someone he cared about. He murdered her – for Arthur – and that was bad enough for despair. But it was nothing to the destruction that the bloody dragon wrought when he released him.

It was too much, too much.

Merlin was just as much to blame as Kilgharrah for it. He let the dragon go. If he hadn't, people, _children_ would still be alive. His _father_ would still be alive.

Yes, destiny cost him. Too dearly. The knowledge of what he'd done - he couldn't breathe. The blood he spilt for Arthur was drowning him and he didn't know how to swim.

There was only one thing left to do. He should have done it long ago, should have confessed and been done with hiding, let Arthur see just who and what he was. Perhaps if he had, none of this would have happened. Morgana, all those people destroyed by a dragon's revenge, and his father, gods his father, would still be alive, if not for Merlin's choices.

He knew that Arthur would never forgive him but at least he would find peace at last – and to hell with destiny.

Closing the door behind him, Arthur's curious gaze following his movements as Merlin gathered up the sword lying on the table, he only shook his head when the prince questioned him, asked him what he thought he was doing.

It was too late for questions. Now there were only answers.

Handing Arthur the blade, Merlin nodded down toward it, then straightened, head held high. He would not go to his death cowering in fear.

"I've been lying to you, Arthur, for a very long time now. But no more." A smile, relief in the last breath of a drowning man.

"I am a sorcerer," he said and waited for the sword to strike.

The end


End file.
